promethean boy
by Happy Birthday to AprilLittle
Summary: clay is the mark of impermanence, and he is only as strong as his creator makes him to be. -ulquiorra/orihime


((promethean boy))

* * *

one::

His brethren all have different views on what exactly defines immortality. Yammy is too much of a dullard to even ponder these things. Aaroniero thinks of himself as constant progression with unceasing certainty, Szayel adorns himself in the feathers of a phoenix. Zomarri's skin is bedecked with the one-hundred eyes of Azrael, while Grimmjow and Nnoitra are moving, rippling forces of devastation. Halibel is the ocean, relentless in its desire, Barragan is death incarnate, Stark is a power above all powers, second only to Aizen.

He is number four. He is an Arrancar, an Espada, a soldier. He does not flinch. He does not falter. He is Aizen's right hand of deliverance and damnation and Lord Aizen is his creator- therefore, he is his god.

Aizen lives and breaths _existence _into their empty bodies, wills them into being with a command a wish from the _Hogyoku. _Aizen is a king and the Espada are his underlings, Hueco Mundo their kingdom and Earth soon to be a mere extension of God's empire.

That is, until the girl appears.

He thinks that had it not been for the girl, their empire might have survived, might have triumphed in the war. But that was an untold story in a world of millions of parallel worlds, and so, its dying pleas of fortune and empowerment went unanswered.

* * *

two::

She is an usurper, Aizen's left hand of salvation. She dresses in their plain black and white clothing even though she is not one of _them_. He sees how distracted she is; left alone in her sparsely furnished chambers, she will bite her lip, wring the blankets into twisted coils, sleep and sleep for hours on end and wake up still frozen in time. Hueco Mundo does not age, it does not recall forgotten glory days of youth. The desert is a place of wildness, of untamed temporal laws, and here, physics do not function as they do elsewhere. Hueco Mundo is disorder, chaos, entropy; the Shinigami are order, and so, the Arrancar are their direct opposition. Hence the perpetual daylight.

Her meals are provided with the snap of a finger. She bows her head as he enters with her cart, does not look as he sets the dishes out. Pasta, linguini and alfredos in green herbed sauces and melting cheeses, dressed with plump tomatoes and chilies. Soups, clear broths and thick stews in stone bowls. Game hens dripping with their own juices, steaks sizzling at a steady medium-rare temperature. Jasmine tea, chamomile, Pinot Noir and Cabernet Sauvignon. Pomegranates, apples, pears, and oranges, beside platters of pineapple and dragonfruit. A cornucopia is laid out before her, and she does not eat. She spurns her own cuisine, eyes downcast, and he grasps her frail, birdlike wrist and threatens to force the food into her systematically if she will not eat of her own will.

"Aizen-sama has been generous with you," he whispers in the quietest of voices as she squirms. "I suggest that you accept his mercy before his patience turns sour."

He turns and walks to the door, pushing it open, just as she calls, "Wait!"

He pauses. She fidgets, asks, "Please, could you- could you tell me your name?"

"I do not see why my address is of any importance to you, _onna_."

There is a lull.

"My name is Inoue Orihime," she says. "What's yours?"

"It's not your place to ask, _onna_, nor is it relevant to you at all. Eat, unless you'd rather bed force fed through a tube."

"Please."

He stops, his fingers sliding away from the knob. He allows his head to twist around, green, cat-like pupils gazing at her in silence, lips pursed, as she eyes him back. Her chin held high, her stare unwavering, she is defiant and proud and almost regal. _How befitting of a queen_, he thinks, watching the strands of orange car fit around her neck. _Like fire_, he thinks.

"Pl-"

"My name is Ulquiorra Cifer," he answers, tongue rolling over the syllables dully. "That is the only irrelevant question you shall ever ask which I shall answer. Any more of this nonsense, and punishment will be at hand." He opens the door again and strolls out. "Eat, woman."

As he leaves, he can hear her say a muted "Thank you" under her breath.

* * *

three::

She places her fingers over his chest, where the hole is. He stops her lightly, politely, with a look. His fingers are wound around hers, and she is breathing hard. For once, it is dark out.

"Why do you do this?" he inquires.

She gestures vainly. "Your heart. It's missing."

"Arrancar are not humans, _onna_," he explains, as though to a child. "We do not need the things you do. We live differently, in other ways."

"But your heart-" She gestures again, words on the tip of her tongue she cannot articulate. She looks up at him, entreats her with her dilated pupils. There is sand in her hair, on her skin, and it is cold out. She burrows deeper into his torso.

"Tell me, _onna_." He looks down at her bowed head, brushes away the bangs obscuring her delicate face. "What is your preoccupation with my heart? Tell me."

"You do not have one."

It is an observation, but it leaves his throat a little dry. He does not cough. He simply stares, and after a while, she wilts.

"Everyone needs a heart," she murmurs. "Even Hollows. They are everything, don't you see?" She plucks his hands, places them over her own chest. He can feel her heart beating beneath his palms.

"Can you feel it?"

"Yes."

"No. Can you feel it?"

She asks the question twice, thrice, as many times as he can count on his fingers. Each time, he answers with the same thing, and she looks disappointed. Saddened. Her lashes are black, and they look like butterflies, like the _Santen Kesshun_ she summons with an incantation. He does not understand.

"What are you asking me, woman?"

"Can you feel it, Ulquiorra?"

She asks again. He answers. There are tears running down her face and he resists the urge to wipe them away.

* * *

four::

"I can't explain it." She smiles shyly, blushes. They are at the top of Las Noches, underneath the moon. He has taken her there on a whim, has entertained her every fancy. Now, he grows impatient.

"Try," he mutters.

"It's like- it's like there are butterflies in my stomach, sometimes, when my heart beats fast. Like I am on fire, but it does not burn harshly. Rather, it cocoons me." She slips her fingers around his own, leans against his shoulder. She's warm. Feverishly hot. He wonders if she's delirious. "You try, Ulquiorra. It's easy to figure it out, once you can feel it yourself."

"This is ludicrous. An organ, a _human _organ, cannot possibly hold such complex functions within itself." He gives the equivalent of a scoff and she grins. "It is impossible."

"They're called _emotions_, Ulquiorra."

"Functions of the mind, not of this 'heart' you speak of. Hearts are flesh-and-blood things. What you speak of, it is an erroneous belief."

"If I feel it," she murmurs, close to his ear, "doesn't that alone make it something real?"

"There is no logic in what you say." He stands with her, perched above the dome, their feet miles and miles above the capital. He lets his eyes wander to the curve of her neck, to the elegantly sculpted collarbones, to her enraptured smile as she faces upwards, towards the moon.

"It is beautiful," she breathes. "Isn't it?"

"It is my home," he replies simply.

She tilts her head. Clings to his arm.

"Have you ever wondered?" she muses, dreamily. "About what's beyond, I mean."

"Beyond Lord Aizen's kingdom," he responds, "there are simply other worlds to be conquered."

"No, Ulqui." She shakes her head, smiles again. "There are universes beyond our wildest comprehension. Places of beauty, of limitless imagination."

She pats his hand fondly. "Someday, I'd like to show you some of those places."

"Perhaps."

They drift down, slowly, dizzyingly, and she holds onto his jacket and when their feet make contact with the dust, she is asleep, limp in his arms like a rag doll, and he carries her back to her room and sets her on her bed and pulls on the covers and leaves her with only one (longing) parting glance back.

* * *

five::

Still, despite his frequent denials, she tries to educate him. Make him understand. One time, she pulls him in abruptly, suddenly, without warning, and kisses him on the lips.

She tastes different than he thought she would. Her lips are silken and smooth, her hands are fisted in his hair, around the bonecap skill and twisting between the layers. She is hot to the touch, she tastes like cinnamon, clementines, everything sweet and soft and worthy of being examined through a museum case, and he punches through the wall behind her. Every object in the room- the pitcher, the plates, the dresser and the bedposts- all crack, split cleanly in half, and they sink to the floor with a muted _thump_. Shrapnel drips from his unharmed knuckles, his eyes are slightly glassy as he pushes her away. She drags a hand across her elbow where he gripped her too tightly, eyes watering.

"Do not provoke me like that again," he hisses. "Do not trick me with your games, woman. I have been lenient, but more of this behavior, and perhaps I will get more... vicious."

"Do you understand now?" she questions like the whole thing is nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

In a flash, his fingers are inches away from her slim little throat. One motion, really, and her windpipes will burst and she will gag and her eyes will pop out in her sockets. One movement, and she will a mangled little bird still stuck in her cage, choking on feathers. Their eyes are interlocked, but she does not avoid him. She stares into him, through him, like someone incredibly ancient. During those seconds, she is a fathomless, majestic being and he, he is nothing more than a worm crawling under the blistering afternoon sunlight. His fingers loosen, and ultimately fall.

"Don't try me, Orihime, unless you would like a dangerous reaction." He stands up.

"I heard that," she says, laughing.

He is bewildered. This girl puzzles him. After a while, she claps a hand to her mouth a composes herself. The tiniest of smirks is on her lips. It is a victorious thing; he wonders when he has been defeated. But still, it is not without compassion. It is a kind smirk.

"What is it?"

"You called me Orihime," she replies.

There. There it is.

* * *

six::

_I am a god_, he thinks later, when he is slowly crumbling. _I am a devil. I cannot die. I am not mortal. I am-_

He is watching his body literally slip through his claws. His eyes, which had been burning before, now revert to their natural shade of green. The sclera turn white again. The broken-glass armor of _reiatsu _slackens and falls, shattering. His is a living (dying) hourglass and time seems to have resumed its natural course, if only to taunt him for his failures. The moon sneers at him, vainglorious celestial body that it is, and he feels himself die a little more. Pieces of him mix with the desert landscape and he cannot tell where he is anymore. He cannot orient himself. He feels like the world is an ocean and he is a sailor without an atlas to consult.

Then, she cries.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Four._

She is crying and it wounds him on a deep, visceral level. She is crying and it burns, although the tears do not touch his corroding skin. She is crying, a long, languourous sound of the most gutwrenching despair and it fragments his withered spider soul into a thousand more jagged shards. Cracks on a mirror. She is crying and it feels a little bit like redemption as he fades like an old picture.

He takes a step forward, reaches out. Everything is too slow, like he is wading through swampwater. His lungs are choked with ash- his own ash- and it hurts to breathe. Everything hurts. It hurts to look at her, hurts to watch her reach out for him in a final, desperate gasp for repair. He is beyond fixing anymore, he knows that much is true.

_Look_, he wants to say. _Look at me. I am everything I am not. _

Instead, he asks that final, damned question.

He asks, "Woman, are you afraid of me?"

Without hesitation, she answers tearfully, "No."

She chokes, continues, "No, I am not afraid of you anymore. I am not."

_I am not afraid._

_I am not afraid._

_I am not._

He lurches, stumbles, and another limb breaks away and dissolves. God, he is so close to deliverance, help his wretched spirit. He reaches still, pleading.

_Are you afraid?_

_No._

There. He can see it, he has finally understood the meaning of her riddle. She is an enigma and he has finally pieced together the puzzle, and it is perfect. Humorous. Oh, how he howls in mirth.

There. Her heart is in his palm, his dying, withering hand. He can see it. He can see it so clearly.

Her eyes whisper unspoken truths. Of emptiness, and unfilled voids, and for once, he holds something else besides a sword. It burns, but it cocoons him in tongues of fire. It does not take, but nurtures.

He understands and yet, he doesn't.

"I am not afraid."

_Why__?_

"Because I love you."

Those are the words that refuse to make their way through her teeth. She is still weeping for him.

Oh.

At last, at long last, he shatters.


End file.
